A Death in the Family (My Struggle #1)

by Karl Ove Knausgård

I could see dad. When I could see him I felt safer with him, and in a way that was what mattered most. I knew his moods, and had learned how to predict them long ago, by means of a kind of subconscious categorisation system, I have later come to realise, whereby the relationship between a few constants was enough to determine what was in store for me, allowing me to make my own preparations. A kind of meteorology of the mind … The speed of the car up the gentle gradient to the house, the time it took him to switch off the engine, grab his things and step out, the way he looked around as he locked the car, the subtle nuances of the various sounds that rose from the hall as he removed his coat – everything was a sign, everything could be interpreted. To this was added information about where he had been, and with whom, how long he had been away, before the conclusion, which was the only part of the process of which I was conscious, was drawn. So, what frightened me most was when he turned up without warning … when for some reason I had been inattentive … How on earth did he know I had been running? This was not the first time he had caught me out in a way I found incomprehensible.

This 1 real as fawk